Yes, Father
by squibbles
Summary: She has been molded over the years into something she never wanted to be. She is a character. The perfect actress in everyone else’s show... but she can change. And this letter will be the start. One-shot songfic to "Life-Sized Mirror". Please RR!


Hi. I've concluded that I'm a rather lazy fanfiction writer. I'll just say that right off the bat, because some of you may already be thinking it. Heh. Well, sorry that I never update, but life is pretty busy. This one-shot is about six weekend nights in the making. I have NOT abandoned my other stuff. I wouldn't leave a story unfinished and out in the cold. That's just unethical.

Anyway, on to this thing. This is a one-shot song fic to "Life-Sized Mirror" by No Use For A Name. I used most of the lyrics, but not all of them. It's a fic about... a person not having control over her own life. The writing style is different than what I normally do, but I'm trying to experiment. I did my best to get inside the head of a certain Slytherin girl that many of us may have a bad but also vague first impression of. I wanted to tell a story (allow me to be cliché your pants off) _through her eyes_. But also in third person. And present tense. And I'm rambling.

So here goes nothing. Please enjoy, and don't forget to review!

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**Yes, Father** by _squibbles_.

It is far too cold for a night in June, when summer is so close. She sits at her desk, a few candles lit. With a sigh, she drops her quill and rubs tired eyes with the pads of her fingertips. She had received the owl that morning at breakfast and now, more than twelve hours later, she remains hunched over the letter. The dark, royal purple calligraphy on fine parchment – a mark of her family's wealth; more specifically, her father's taste – had been on her mind throughout the day.

How silly she had been to think that this wasn't coming. It was a matter that was always discussed at home, in the Manor. The last time her parents mentioned it had been during winter holidays, and that was over her final dinner before the return-trip. The conversation had lasted perhaps twenty minutes. Upon closing her eyes, she shakes her head, recalling her father's tone; so expectant, so curt. Persistent and forceful. And a million other adjectives. She pities herself. Considers what to write in response, ponders if it will make any difference.

**Father said, "This day would be one for everyone to see."**

**Is it true you'll follow suit and have you learned a thing?**

With one week to graduation, she knows she must come to terms with this. What her father wants. What she wants. She will tell him what she wants, regardless if it changes things. Pushing the letter aside, she reaches into her lower desk drawer for fresh parchment. She unrolls the twelve-inch piece; places her inkwell on the top right corner. She smoothes the textured paper, then rests her forearm down in order to keep it from curling back into a roll. Luxurious, golden feather quill in hand, she dips gracefully into the inkwell and writes.

_Father,_

_I have received your owl, and I believe it is only fair to discuss my feelings on the subject._

Hesitation. The truth is difficult. More difficult to speak than write, she reasons, re-fixing the quill's tip to the parchment. Continuing proves to be a struggle. She shifts the inkwell to the desk surface. The parchment slings into a roll as if pulled by an invisible elastic. She straightens the top loop; watches the parchment for a full minute, wishing the words from her mind would appear on their own accord. There is no such luck. She begins to hate the parchment, and ends up staring at it for one moment too long. She sneers, snatches her quill from its passive stance in the inkwell, and drives a hole through her enemy. As if all she holds is filthy, she throws the almost-blank parchment and feather quill to the desk. She wears a disgusted expression as she stands. Like a stubborn child, she turns her back on what she must face.

**It's just a selfish way to go,**

**It's safe to say she'll never know—**

**For every person there's a whole life story waiting to be told . . .**

After a few moments, she feels foolish. To turn her back on an inanimate object—hah! Foolish. Not a new feeling, and it has never been an easy one. Her so-called "mates" only know of her as a giggling ditz. She has been playing that role for too long to change. Too foolish for too long. She swivels on her heel. Her eyes drop to the parchment; a gaping, inky tear renders it useless. She understands how it feels to be so rumpled and distraught. To have a hole inside that can be covered up, but never mended. She lifts the parchment gingerly, regretting her actions. She folds it with care. Her strange, abstract attachment to it doesn't allow her to throw it away. It will reside in her bottom drawer until she must clear out her things in a week's time.

Her gaze finds the letter. The candle has fallen; melted wax sprawls across the words. She is glad.

**When she is happy it's okay,**

**But when these people start to fade—**

**We'll just watch her self-destruct as she gets old . . .**

She sits. Takes a few calming breaths to ensure she doesn't lash out again. Someone enters. A friend, a dorm-mate. The friend tells her that he is waiting for her in his room. That he wants her immediately. She nods, for she already knows, but does not point out this fact. It is Friday. It is late. It has been a week or so since… last time. She is not incapable of putting two and two together, though outwardly this may seem the case. She is reluctant to go, but it is expected of her. Without him, without the people that expect a certain personality of her, who does she have? Her parents? No, not Father. Indeed, he is why her wardrobe is lavish, but that is not love. It is a mere sign of detachment, of disinterest. Or rather, interest in one thing. Only one thing. She scans the letter. It is short and to the point.

_Daughter,_

_Your graduation approaches. I maintain that you will begin service to the Dark Lord promptly upon your return to the Manor. There are tasks at hand. You will be Marked. _

_I will not see your graduation. I have arranged for you to be escorted home afterward. _

She wonders why her father didn't sign his name. It is fairly atypical of him to do this; ordinarily, she knows, he makes his mark in large, outstanding cursive, proud of his name that is known for its purity. Perhaps he had other things on his mind, she decides.

**She put up defensive shields **

**To walk through all of life's minefields**

**All defined by make-up and a car—behind she's hiding . . .**

She will write the return owl later. Right now, she must go see him. He is waiting for her. With a listless sigh she stands from the desk and approaches her mirror. Her complexion is falsely perfect. Layers of fakeness conceal the many flaws she thinks she has. She knows she has. She applies more, along with some glittery nonsense that make her lips look unnatural, but is apparently considered attractive. She smoothes her silky nightdress before throwing on a robe for the journey across the common room to his dormitory, then bids her friend farewell.

At the foot of the stairs, four pairs of eyes shoot figurative daggers in her direction. His dorm-mates. All they want to do is sleep, but he kicks them out so he can have the room alone with her. It's not an issue of modesty or pride or respect – he tells them the details after he's finished with her, anyway – it's just part of the ritual. He sends them to the common room. She endures the glares as she passes them wearing a calm, oblivious expression, willing herself not to run. She arrives in his dormitory. He impatiently engages in forced conversation with her before using her to satisfy himself. She leaves. The dorm-mates are allowed to return, and she rests in her own bed but is unable to sleep. This is simply how it goes. It is always the same. It degrades her.

**She's going to move on with her life,**

**Take it one heart at a time,**

**And watch the little girl inside her wait behind as she goes on . . .**

She knocks, then hears him tell her to enter. She puts on a smile, which seems to grow steadily phonier with each encounter, and pushes through the door. He lounges on the bed, shirtless. Come here, he beckons, blonde hair gleaming in the low light. Her twitter is automatic as she removes her robe, closing the distance between them. He asks her how she is though he is clearly not interested – his hands fumble with the front of his pants, poised for their removal. She tells him she is fine, and inquires the same. His response is a vague grunt. There is a silence just long enough to be awkward and give him time to initiate. Her grin cemented in all its blissful artificiality, she lets him place her body where he pleases.

It will all be over quickly.

**But with this black heart she decides**

**Who she'll take in and shove aside,**

**Until the day she sees that everyone has gone . . .**

Her smile may be fixed, but her eyes are amiss. Her skin may be against his, but she is distant. While he works what he likes to call his '_real_ magic' on her, she reflects back on the first time. It had hurt. Unbearably. But for some reason that she can't remember anymore, she had been consumed with happiness. Every time after the first had gotten better. She had loved him… until the beginning of Seventh Year, when things started to change. She arrived at the painful realization that he had no love for her. But the cycle had continued. And now she is numb. Both emotionally and literally, she no longer feels what she used to. It is a chore to be beneath him like this, feigning pleasure, begging more when it is the last thing she desires.

She senses him leaving her as he rolls to the side, his breath ragged. How long had it been? Only minutes, she infers from her index of past experiences. Short and _not_ sweet – his unsung philosophy.

Well, he is finished. He's fucking spent, good for him. And she is left feeling bitter and empty, exhausted from the indecent act just performed between them. She excuses herself, bidding him a farewell laced with forced sweetness, before he can even make his usual excuse. This catches him off guard – that she would leave before he told her to – she can tell. She knows him all too well. His expectations, his emotions, the jealousy and anger, his deceit and cowardice, his cocky smirk that used to make her feel as if her insides were melting, her heart fluttering, her head growing wings and carrying her beyond the clouds.

Those feelings are gone.

**Getting used to people leaving, thinking true love is deceiving—**

**Soon she'll know how lonely it can be . . .**

And so is she. Her walk across the common room is just as agonizing as the one she had taken no more than twenty minutes ago. His dorm-mates' scowls are impossible to dodge, and their grumblings cut her – they speak under their breath, but don't really bother to keep their voices down. She bites her lip to keep from tearing up as they insult her amongst themselves while returning to their dorm. They talk as if she isn't there, a mere ten feet away. She knows they think she is some sort of imbecile that has to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other when walking. They think she's too bubbly and aloof and self-oriented to listen to what they say. But she listens despite herself, hears more than they will ever know. It is ironic that she has yet to say anything.

Her dormitory is still cold. Her friend, relaxed on her bed with a copy of Witch Weekly, doesn't seem to notice and sports a tank top and a pair of her boyfriend's boxers. The friend asks how 'it' was. She giggles on cue and tells her friend that it was fun… like always. The friend appears satisfied with this lie and continues flipping through the magazine.

She finds herself re-seated at her desk, face-to-face with what has really been troubling her. The little rendezvous had been an interruption. _He's_ just a bloke she used to fancy, his mates are just jackasses. Those problems are the result of her being a teenager and will dissolve once her adolescence does. This letter is what is truly important. There is a slight chance that her reply to it will change the course of her entire life. For instance, Father may disown her. Unlike most of the people in her House, this possibility would make her happier in the long run.

**Now was it really worth the pain?**

**A couple pills make her feel sane—**

**As she lives out the story written for the part she is to play . . .**

She tries to write again. Parchment, quill, ink. Father's letter, her thoughts, her pain. She is so lonesome, despite her friend, despite _him_. And the whole school, and the vast world. She is alone with her mind that is filled with contradiction, mixed messages. How easily she confuses her own wishes with all the others'. She has been molded over the years into something she never wanted to be. She is a character. The perfect actress in everyone else's show.

But she can change. And this letter will be the start. She writes.

_Father._

**With so much shame for her to hide—**

**There's no more dignity, no pride.**

**And there will only be dark in her light of day . . .**

Deep breath.

_I do not wish to be Marked. I do not wish to join the Dark Lord. This is my own decision._

No.

She is nauseous. The parchment blurs. This is too hard.

No, nothing will stop her now. Please write on, she wills her hand. Please.

No.

**And she will only see the reflection—of her Father's rejection.**

The parchment is discarded. She would rip it to shreds, but she is in the presence of another. And when someone is watching, the last thing she can do is act on what she feels. She lays it daintily into the trash bin. And now the words come quickly. Subconsciously, it seems, the whole day had been spent thinking about what Father would want to read rather than what she would want to write. This habit is her downfall. Shaped by her peers, judged by her image, influenced by her family name. She isn't strong enough.

_Yes, Father. _

_I look forward to joining the Cause. I shall see you in a week._

_Sincerely,_

_Your Daughter, Pansy._

Her hands shake. The return letter is slipped into an envelope and tied to her owl, who she carries to the window and lets loose. There is no turning back.

**Nothing will change until she breaks this life—**

And the numbness consumes her. She cannot even feel the tears on her face. Her life is signed away, gliding through the black sky on the wings of a tawny owl.

**This life-sized mirror.**

It is far too cold for a night in June, when summer is so close.

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Review, s'il vous plait. 


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